Fiction

I slide my scuffed All Stars off Katherine’s dashboard. She shuffles into the driver’s seat, a huge gas station slushie in her left hand, spiked lemonade and Newport cigarettes in the right. She’s silent, seamlessly pouring one drink into the other, giving herself a light after moving one hand to the wheel. I sigh, hinting at a slight chuckle.

Even though I’m her best friend, I still can’t believe she’s thirty. I cross my arms. “You can’t drink while you’re driving,”

She shifts her janky pickup into reverse. “Big brother is out to get me for much worse.” Her shoulders fall. “That man inside did give me a weird look, Leslie. If this trucks bugged, better be safe than sorry.” She plops her drink in the cupholder.

“He looked 70-some. Didn’t he have glasses?”

“How do you know they weren’t the magnifying… no, x-ray type?”

I roll my eyes and raise my hand to my forehead. “If he’s a special forces soldier, maybe. Guess you never know.” I huff a laugh, signaling I only agree with about a fourth of her statement. About six hours lie ahead until we reach the Canadian border.

I flip through the conspiracy pamphlets sitting in the glove box. They’ve become less entertaining as the drive has drawn on. “How’ll we know Henry will give us a place to stay anyway?”

“He may be my ex-husband, but he’s the only other person who knows how much danger we’re in besides me.”

I look through a side squint at her. “He’s for sure the only person as sci-fi-oversuspicious as you are.”

The year 2000’s approach is the only thing nullifying Kat’s divorcee rage. Her overdramatized tangled ramblings about the “extreme Y2K incompliant technology crash and burn” have been off the wall enough to tempt even me to actually trust the government. The biggest real threat to Kat and me is the lack of Wal-Mart stock due to our town’s panic buying dilemma. Kathrine’s concerned the future lack of power will attract aliens. I just want some toilet paper. We’d both been planning to take a road trip anyway.

Kat turns down the Jewel lyrics booming from the radio and drones on. “The water will cease when the clock strikes. There’ll be mobs at the houses of those who saved up jugs. The national guard will have to fight em off. Or, perhaps, the extraterrestrial tv broadcasts at midnight will zombify the mass out of panic.” She says.

I grit my teeth. The atmosphere of our isolated adventure has sucked her ludicrous blubbering dry of any humor. “The whole populous will be watching for New Year’s, I guess.”

I reach for another one of the pamphlets, but a popping jostle thrusts the car forward. My chest crashes into the dated, useless seatbelt. Kat’s slushie spills, and she hunkers up against the steering wheel. “They’ve made interdimensional contact. This won’t be our getaway car for much longer, Leslie. They’ve got control, Leslie!”

Jumps and bumps continue under both of our peeling leather seats. “You’re still driving, woman. Steer.”

“I should’ve installed an ejection seat here—”

I throw my arm to the dashboard to force myself still. “Drive, Kathrine. There’s another station up ahead. Pull over there.”

The truck’s bucking and backfiring refuses to quit while Kat forces the wheel into the squatty little gas shop. She double parks our bug-out-bunker-on-wheels wannabe right near the door.

I relax my hands on my knees.“Letting this thing rest might just fix whatever that was. Maybe they have a phone inside. We could call Henry,” I say.

Kathrine’s now on her last cigarette. “Alright, but you better zip it about our route to anyone inside.”

I try to walk through the gas stations doors calmy enough to contradict Kats sneaky demeanor. I gesture to the haggard woman behind the counter. “Do you have a phone, maim?”

“Phones down.”

Kat flinches. “It’s starting early, Leslie. Taking away power to charge their super solar brainwashers.”

My eyebrows fall, while hers rise. Kathrine jumps behind me, ensuring no eye contact with the slightly unapproachable backlands granny. I stomp my left foot into a pivot, and whip around to face her. “Why does everything have to be a put-up scheme with you? I have half a mind to take those keys. I’d cover more ground alone.”

Kat fists her hands onto her hips. “My best friend would never say that.”

“Well, maybe I——”

The register woman bops the counter bell. “Looks like something needs fixing.”

I cock an eyebrow. “What?”

“That truck. Made a cacophony your whole way in here. If you get back in your car, I’ll take a look for free.” She waddles toward the doors.

I exhale. “Yeah, that. Sure.” I motion my head to the entrance. “You heard the woman. Let’s go.”

Kat follows me, shivering in her own paranoia and anger, eyes darting as we buckle in again. She pops our hood for the granny. We sit in silence, but the next half hour ticks by slower than our entire impulsive venture has. I scan Kat in her scrunched-up position. A worm of guilt buries itself in me. I’m waiting for Kathrine to apologize, so why do I feel at fault?

I pick up her slushie. “You still want this?”

Her voice cracks. “Guess so, if you think big brother’s nothin’ to worry about.”

I place it back in the cupholder. “Nothing? Trust me, they’re everything to worry about.”

“You really think so?”

I look her in the eye. “Obviously. I’m sorry.” I smile, remembering why I’m here in the first place.

A knock on the window startles us both. I gasp, but it was the backlands granny again. “Trucks good now.”

We give her the midwestern nod, and back out. The truck starts up just fine. “You think she gave us a weird look?” I ask.

“Pupils looked lizard-like, unreal—”

“Don’t push it,” I chuckle again, staring out onto the open road. Pretty sure there wasn’t much wrong with the truck in the first place.

 

Kira Mata is a fifteen year old Torah-believing Mexican-American author whose writing has focused on eclectic and strangely original flash fiction since the age of 12. Initially specializing in odd short stories and controversial poetry, she has further developed her likeness of the unordinary by organizing haphazard and irregular or jarring themes into legible creative prose. Her fiction lives on a spectrum of haunting yet plausible tragedies, and semi-humorous unorthodox dramas. Aside from her identity as an author, her practiced artistry extends her labels to also include photographer, Illustrator, portraitist, watercolorist, graphic designer, and (arguably, the most fun) character designer. Her stories will surely send you on a rollercoaster, or at least, leave that funny feeling in your stomach. But, although some areas of Kira’s literature may be a little too descriptive, the romance never will be!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“Is this seat taken?”

Who is talking to me? It’s a boy, a pretty one. He looms over 11A, waiting for my lips to give him a response. I don’t have one. He’s the kind of guy that could be your husband or your enemy: white teeth, strawberry blond hair, so conventionally attractive that you want to sock him in between his button nose and clean eyebrows.

He’s still standing there and I want to say yes, this seat is taken. Ms. Jane Austen and a Diet Sprite with too many napkins have reserved 11A and if they decide to give up their seat later on the flight to India, (they won’t), I will be sure to alert him. For now though, he can grow a unibrow and leave me alone.

“No, it’s free.” I say. Oh Jesus Christ he’s sitting down.

He looks eerily familiar, like I’ve seen him in a nightmare. “Sean,” he says with his tan hand outstretched. “Marina,” I reply, darting my hand out and scratching him with my purple nails instead. Goddamn it he has a good handshake.

“Why are you going to Mumbai?” He asks and I spot a green speck stuck between his molars, most likely from the Chipotle eaten outside our gate. In a way I’ll have to dissect later, it humanizes him. He’s just regular Sean going to Mumbai and he didn’t know he was interrupting my date with Mr. Darcy, and he doesn’t mean any harm and the joke is out before I can bite my stupid tongue. “I thought this plane was going to Sydney!” I exclaim too loudly. 10B turns around.

My dad used to make that joke every time we traveled for his work. He was a great actor, eyes curtaining his lies and so everyone believed for a few seconds that he really was on the wrong flight. That’s probably how he got away with what happened to  my mom. Just a theory.

I dig my nails into my palm so hard that crescent moons will linger long after the interaction. “Seriously Marina literally what the fuck is so hard about keeping your mouth shu-” A full-bellied laugh shatters my thoughts. Sean is laughing. He’s laughing so hard his torso shakes and I swear to something the plane shakes as well. He laughs with his mouth open and his head thrown back, and I want to take a picture and make it my home screen so I can remember that joy like this is still alive and maybe one day I will feel it too. His breath slows down but when he looks at me, his eyes are dancing. “Marina, I’m glad I sat next to you.”

Those dancing eyes are so familiar.

I hate myself for talking to him and I love that it’s happening. My therapist would tell me I love to hate myself, but I think I just love him. I love him so much I’m willing to hate myself.

We talk about the wrong way to eat ice cream and how useless pigeons are. He tells me his sister is so autistic that she can’t speak and he feels selfish for knowing three languages. I tell him my dad got away scot-free and I refuse to wear matching socks because I want to express my free will as much as I can. He tells me I’m beautiful and my heart crumbles and rebuilds itself in the pit of my stomach. On hour four, I delete Instagram because the alerts are distracting me from his hair.
I share my fucking Sprite with him.

He throws Welch Fruit Snacks into my mouth and I would bet everything I have that I’ve seen him somewhere horrible.

The flight attendant winks at him so I climb out of my seat and trap her in the tiny bathroom because she is prettier than me and he is the only good thing I have right now. Unfortunately, I am in the window seat so she continues her way down the aisle with walnuts and pretzels and hands ripe to steal true love.

“How old are you?” I ask Sean. “What do you do?” I ask my boyfriend.

“Why are you going to Mumbai?” I ask my husband. “Do you mind if I take a nap?” I ask him on our deathbed, going out holding hands like in The Notebook and knowing no one is as lucky as we are. My soulmate is a twenty-six-year-old lawyer whose best friend is having a bachelor party and no, he doesn’t mind. I fall asleep wondering how glad I am that I said yes and wondering how I know him.

My nightmares are as routine as coffee runs. I’m sitting in the back row of a courtroom, watching as my father consults with his lawyer, who I remember being conventionally attractive, ‑and discusses the likelihood of his being set free. It’s high. I see him walking out of the room, handcuffs jettisoned on the ground as he makes his way to me with the same kitchen knife my mom used to make her lasagna. I see him eyeing me the way he eyed her. I see his lawyer cheering him on. I wake up and see the lawyer taking a sip of my Sprite, ruffling his strawberry blond hair. I see myself crumbling inside, organ by organ. My insides are on fire, flames licking my broken bones, and I feel my heart unraveling like a knit sweater.  I see myself kissing him, and ending him and then, ‑I see myself forgetting to take my medicine in the morning.

Lastly, I see the knife in my hand as I stand in the kitchen.. Sean has gone to the bathroom. I don’t think he’s going to come back.

 

Naomi Beinart is a fifteen year old girl who lives in Manhattan with her parents and brother. She attends school in Brooklyn

Beep, beep, beep, blared the sound of my alarm clock. My eyes shot open with wariness then quickly dissipated into a sense of drowsiness as soon as my consciousness returned to me. It was pitch black outside and it looked as if someone had spilt a great big deal of somber, starless ocean space just outside my window. It was cold. My eyes shifted from left to right and I saw that my stuffed animals, blankets, and pillows had all been thrown to my bedroom floor in my restless unconscious sleep. My bed was completely barren except for the sheet that spread and hugged the mattress beneath it. This alarm was set as a reminder not for the day but instead for homework. I absolutely despise my math class. I delayed my homework for as long as possible and now here I was, pushing both my tired body and mind to get up from bed.

Get up, get up, get up. I persisted as if my body was a corpse and I begged for life to return to me again. Get up, get up, get up. A whirlwind of the deep dark space outside swirled and crashed against my window. Get up, get up, get up. This voice was no longer my own but I heard it echo inside my head. Feeling returned to my bitterly cold fingertips, taste returned to my tongue and a great pressure-like matter accompanied my returning sense of sound. I deserted my starfish disposition stiffly and left my barren bed. I made my way through the quiet hallway and out to my backyard.

There it was standing before me, its shining titanium silver plating glowing in the pitch black atmosphere. A singular circular window could be seen just below the tip. It was a rocket ship, —in my backyard? I moved forward without any control as if my body was in a trance but I didn’t resist. Its doors automatically opened like the kind in a grocery store and I sat inside.

A great impenetrable cloud of fog filled my head. It was pitch black inside. A small shape of light took form in the circular window that I had seen outside. This wasn’t any bright or

luminescent light either, it was dull and almost fading. With every step I took the fog only seemed to get heavier and heavier. I thirsted for the light. I couldn’t stand the pitch black darkness. I hadn’t realized I made my way to the window until I laid my head beside it. I felt like a kid riding the bus home from school after a bad day.

The blaring roar of the rocket ship at long last came to a standstill. It was deafeningly silent for a brief moment. I heard the familiar sound of those automatic doors and I hazily made my way outside. My eyes were met with a bone-dry surface. Dirt had completely covered the desiccated ground and it was so dry. Deep narrow fissures embedded themselves into the dry exterior. There were no signs of life, no plants, no trees, no flowers, fruits, or gardens. Wherever I was, it was completely barren and colorless. Except for the sky. Bright twinkling lights shone above the barren wasteland. It reminded me of the lights on a Christmas tree, warm and all sorts of different colors. The only company that I had seemed to be welcomed with was a rough and scratchy feeling in my throat. I really wanted a glass of water.

 

*

I see a figure in the distance. Its silhouette appears closer and less faded as it walks towards me. I am still in a daze and I don’t feel it going away any time soon. The unfamiliarity of this strange place isn’t helping either but I feel too out of place to feel any type of fear. It makes its way closer to me now. I am standing still. Don’t move. Closer. Much closer now. We are standing face to face.

“Hello.” His voice is stern but calm. “Hi.” I respond, sleepily.

His voice sounds a bit silly to me. It’s in complete contrast to the way he looks. Despite his rocky exterior, he moves swiftly and gracefully, just like a deer. He is pale and nothing more. A small wave of pity abruptly hits me as he continues to speak.

“There is no life here and it’s so dry. We are dying.” His voice raises concern in me like a rising tide.

“I want to help you. What can I do? I’ll do anything— as long as it isn’t math.” I reply still in a bit of a haze.

“There is no water here. I don’t know what else to do. I am all alone.” His voice now strangely monotone.

“I’m still here.” A voice emerges from what seems to be out of the blue. I guess this place isn’t completely barren.

“I called you here. Our planet is on the brink of death. Get up.” His voice is now familiar to me.

My vision is blurry, and  I can scarcely make out the two creatures in front of me. One, a sea spider, is nothing but a pale blob with its sprawled legs. This other creature has no legs at all and when he speaks his mouth opens to an enormous length. At one point I think he’s going to eat me. This creature is much larger than the sea spider. I would say about the same size as a whale.

“Come now, What will we do? We cannot keep standing around here doing nothing.” He declares impatiently.

I want to wake up and leave. This planet leaves me feeling a great amount of brain fog I can hardly think straight. There was nothing we could do. This planet was barren. I looked down at the deep, narrow openings on the surface. The space between matches the pitch black sky. I kneel on  the rock hard ground, and speak into the deep somber space, to the dry desiccated dirt. I remember hearing that sometimes on Earth  when people spoke to their plants, flowers would bloom, sprouts shooting up towards the sky and the sweet smell of fruits upon the arrival of Spring. Maybe if we did the same here, life would return again.

Soon enough, water begins to rise between these deep narrow fissures. It sounds no different than water flowing through a stream, gently and pleasantly. A sense of relief hits me finally and these animals no longer have to worry. I remember carefully lifting my head, my vision still blurry. I can’t tell what their expressions are but I can guess they’re pretty happy. Sweetness and warmth fill me like an old childhood memory. Just as quickly as it comes the memory is gone. The pleasantly sweet sound of water transformed into an unsuspecting familiarity.

 

*

 

Beep, beep, beep went the sound of my alarm. I found that I had returned to my starfish disposition and my bed was barren. The dark somber space still outside my window. I looked hazily and there was a single star. Bright and shining just like the kind from a Christmas tree. I went to school the next day and my math homework remained undone.

 

 

 

Isabel Ceballos is a senior in high school. She has recently rediscovered a love for writing in a creative writing class.  This is her first time submitting to a publisher and she’s so happy to have the opportunity to have her work reviewed.

 

A chill breeze blows through the abandoned playground. Its cold fingers toy with the swings, casually rocking them back and forth. The wispy air flirts with a forgotten jacket on the bench, lifting it an inch or two before dropping it. Pale moonlight filters down the tube slide and casts eerie shadows that dance and twist, contorting into strange shapes in the night. The children’s bright world seems draped in a thin, supernatural gauze that pools in the sandbox and curls around the teeter-totter. A single, incandescent light bulb struggles against the strangling darkness, trying to penetrate the veil.

A man walking a dog comes down the sidewalk. The dog stops to bark at the preternatural playground. The man sees nothing, but the dog sees a young girl, white and diaphanous, riding the creaking swing set. The child locks eyes with the dog and laughs a thin, drifting laugh.

Slipping down from their undulating perch, she begins to walk toward the dog. The man, still seeing nothing, tugs impatiently at the dog’s leash, urging him on ahead. Although he doesn’t know why, the man feels a strange compulsion to leave this place. . . quickly.

The dog resists, approaching the playground fence instead. He presses his face to the metal grid, struggling in vain to smell the girl. A small, translucent hand reaches out, and a pair of pale lips giggle at the soft feel of the dog’s licking tongue. The dog noses the child as a signal for her to follow him down the slope. She complies, passing through the wires.

The man watches his dog’s actions with apprehension. He begins to pull sharply on the dog’s leash, yelling and calling in a sense of rising panic. The dog dawdles, appearing to guide something, or someone, down the embankment, away from the playground fence. The dog’s eyes are glued to something beside him. The man fumbles for his phone, clumsily turning on the flashlight app. He turns the light toward the dog. . . and sees two shadows on the grass.

The man screams as he bolts. The dog’s leash slips from his hand; he races in wild terror down the road, his shoes beating a fast tattoo on the asphalt. The dog looks in curiosity after his owner, wondering what there is to fear in this small stranger. When the dog turns back, the girl is gone. He spins around, whirling in a half circle, seeking through the gloom for a sign. There is nothing, no smell to trace, no shadow to spot, only a dark playground with a weak light bulb casting an anemic glow. The dog lowers his head, whimpering, as he sulks after his owner. His leash drags over the blacktop, fraying the edge of the nylon handle. A frozen gale whips past, ruffling the fur on the back of his neck. He’s sure he hears it whispering, “Thank you for being my friend.”

 

 

 

Adah is a high school senior with an addiction to Jesus and words. She has been homeschooled by her mother since Pre-K, and is looking forward to graduating in the coming spring. Adah is currently studying Creative Writing, and is excited to see how God plans on using her. Adah also loves horses (especially Appaloosas), spending every minute she can with them. Her main hobby is model-horse collecting/customizing, and her blog can be found at: spotteddreamsstudio.blogspot.com .

“Band, ten-hut!” exclaimed Karlee, calling the band to attention.

It was the last time for a lot of things, but it was the last time I’d be marching down the track to the stands. It was the last time I’d hear that call for attention before a game. It was the final day of being a section leader. It was the end.

It was so loud, yet I couldn’t hear a single thing. No faint taps of drumsticks, passing conversations from the crowd, not even the sound of my own steps. I was stuck in my head as I looked at my band for one of the last times. My gaze shifted to Carter, my beloved underclassman and co-section leader, whom I want to pass the reins onto after I graduate. I saw that look in his eyes that matched my own, it was almost as if the knot in my chest was just as bad as his. It was only a few seconds, but I looked away because that’s when the tears started.

My eyes burned with emotion, I couldn’t even pinpoint what I was feeling. There was something so sad about this moment, yet it felt so fulfilling. I wasn’t ever ready for change, I wasn’t ready for it to be my turn. But I knew it was inevitable.

As we marched in unison, it felt like time had slowed nearly to a stop as we approached the front of the stands. Before I knew it, the roll-off for the national anthem rang out, and I felt the volume of the snare drum rattling against my ribs. It was the same routine as every other game, playing the national anthem, following it up with loyalty, and then making our way to the end zone where we would play. It felt like every other game to everyone else, and in reality, it was like every other game. But I felt like I was losing a part of myself as I played those same songs I’d played only two weeks prior.

It seemed only a moment’s notice before halftime came around. I walked in close tracks behind Karlee, Carter, and Mateyka. It was like I was walking with my family one last time before going to college,— at least that’s what it felt like.

The halftime show felt like a blur in a way. I couldn’t even remember anything about it at the time. I stepped off the field. I only remember messing up once or twice, but it wasn’t anything too noticeable other than something I would notice.

We actually did it, for the first time, we finally performed the entire halftime show, and with few mistakes at that. It felt perfect, but what I was feeling wasn’t. It was far from perfect, I felt so empty in a way, like I was missing something. But that something wasn’t anything I could attain.

It was the longing to do it all again one last time.

 

 

 

 

Alec E. Damien is a seventeen-year-old student author and performer of the fine arts, Born in Mount Vernon, Illinois. He is working to get his high school diploma, as he plans to attend college to pursue a career in music production and writing. Once he had started writing in his early years of elementary school his writing career has only continued to evolve over the years. Further into his high school years, and now as a senior student at Mount Vernon Township High School, he plays a vital role in the art and music department, including being a part of the school marching band and symphonic band as a senior trumpet section leader and first chair. Being new to the writing scene, Damien plans to dive into genres of writing such as; Dramatic narratives, Horror, Thrillers, and Fictional narratives.

Stolen speech hissed on the horizon. There was no water to be found that day, not in the wells or the streams. The tap ran dry, the pond drained away, and the ground broke open. Late in the afternoon, the wind whipped thousands of brown, withered leaves from the groves in the east. Echoes of the drought thrummed underground, sending tremors through the earth. Cracks opened in the seams of stone and the sun scorched everything it touched. The earth bled.

There had never been a drought like it, not that anyone could remember. Even Old Lace, the one-eyed woman who kept vigil over the burned remains of a garden, could recall nothing so ravenous or devastating. “There’s trouble in it, I’m sure,” she warned anyone who came close enough to hear. “There’s trouble, and it won’t go easily.”

It seemed that the earth had turned cruel in the space of a day. A hopeful few talked of water underground, saying that a drought that came so quickly would leave quickly, too. They promised to dig and dig until they found a stream, but the soil proved to be hard and unrelenting. Those that hoped quickly retreated into their homes or vanished into the hills, taking their families and fleeing.

When evening came, it brought only lonely, dismal shade. No respite. Rissa sat in the cellar for hours, searching for the last dying breezes. At midnight, the glass of the sallow windowpane cracked. Hot, disquieted air flooded into the room, burning through the last inches of solace she could find.

Left with nothing but a dusty canteen with a few drops of water, Rissa left the house to find her sister.

Don’t leave me here, Rissa had begged when Teren left the house, when the burning had just begun. Rissa had stepped outside to see a sky bleached bone-white and a field of withered husks, parched earth cleaved open. She screamed and screamed, but Teren just stared, a whisper of longing in her eyes.

Teren hadn’t stayed. I’m going to find water. Don’t follow me. She had disappeared into the hills, a shawl wrapped around her shoulders and cold certainty in her eyes.

If Teren thought herself clandestine, she was wrong. Rissa knew exactly where her sister had gone.

Spectral clouds gathered low over the crossroads. Nothing grew there and no one had the heart to plant anything. Rutted roads, caked with dirt, slashed across the valley. This was a place of buried coins and fervent pleas, a place where people might make their fortune or weep and bleed and die.

Don’t ever go to the crossroads by yourself, understand? Mama used to say, again and again, more a prayer than a warning. There’s powerful things awake in these hills. When they were children, it was a game—who would step closest to that tantalizing sliver of hard-packed earth where the two roads met. Teren always won, until one day when Rissa marched up and planted one foot squarely on the crossroads. The world had twisted like a veil drawn back as Teren shrieked, Your eyes! Rissa, your eyes!

Neither of them went there after that.

By the time Rissa reached the crossroads, the sun’s fevered eye peered over the horizon, weeping droplets of light. It was far too early for another turn of the day, but perhaps the drought had stolen that from them, too. Dust rose from the roads, tainting the air bitter. If Rissa had not known better, it would have seemed a strange mist, an echo of blissful rain.

She stopped at the edge of the road, knowing better than to step onto the crossroads. “Teren,” she called, her voice raspy from lack of water.

A figure came into view. She walked towards Rissa, but for a moment it seemed that she was being formed from the dust of the road, coalescing into the form of a sister. “Teren,” Rissa said again.

A pause. A breath. “I told you not to come here.”

 

It was Teren and it was not Teren. That lyrical voice had turned low and sonorous, echoing through the road and making Rissa’s bones hum. Rissa would never mistake her sister’s voice, though Teren’s face was turned away from her. “I’m here now, aren’t I?” Rissa said.

A distant rumble echoed through the hills. Another earthquake, Rissa wondered, or something else?

 Teren sighed, sending a plume of dust into the air. “You knew where I would be.” “Where else?”
She closed her eyes and pulled her pale yellow shawl tighter around herself. The shawl had been crisp and clean when she left the house; now, it was singed at the edges, ash trailing up the linen cloth.

The clouds were thickening now, weaving across the sky. The air filled with the acrid scent of thunder.

“Will the water return?” Rissa asked, hating every inch of fear in her words. “The earth will collect what is hers.”

The thunderheads rippled across the land. A cool, sweet wind rushed past Rissa, bringing with it the earthy smell of rain.

Understanding finally reached her. “What have you done?”

“It will storm,” Teren said, the edge of satisfaction in her voice.

Rissa shook her head, trying to form words. Her sister was flickering in and out of view as the wind shifted. “Mama wouldn’t have wanted—”

“Let the dead weep and leave the wanting to the rest of us, Rissa. I did what I had to do.”

Rissa thought back to the scorched earth, the barren ground, the empty wells. There’s powerful things awake in these hills. “You don’t need to do this. We’ll find another way, we’ll go somewhere else—”

“There’s nowhere else to go.”

A single salty tear ran down Rissa’s face. She didn’t wipe it away. Another peal of thunder rolled by, louder this time. Droplets of pearlescent rain came down from the heavens, hissing where they hit the road. Where they touched Teren, dust flew into the air, hovering around her in a half-formed veil.

“Stop,” Rissa choked out, unsure of who—or what—she was addressing. “Teren, you have to—”

Teren turned towards her.

“Your eyes,” Rissa breathed. There was nothing human in those eyes, not anymore. Her sister’s eyes spilled over with hungry golden light, piercing Rissa with an incendiary glow.

The rain grew stronger, lashing down with a frantic, frenzied energy. The road filled up with water, washing away the scarred ruts, the lonely skies. “It’s done,” Teren said. There was no warmth in her smile. “The rains are here.”

Rissa stepped onto the crossroads, hardly noticing the chill that ran through her. She grabbed Teren’s wrist, but found herself holding loose, sandy dirt. “Teren?” She reached out to touch her sister’s shoulder, hoping for a sign, any sign, that her sister was still there, but her fingers passed directly through Teren’s body. She whipped her hand back, recoiling in horror to see that she only clutched a fistful of sand.

A gentle, feather-light touch on Rissa’s shoulder was all she had to know that Teren was still there. “The earth claims her due, little sister,” Teren whispered, her voice a faint hiss. “I promised my life. The rains will return.”

With a final breath, what was left of Teren collapsed into the dirt.

The rains went on, pelting the dust for hours and hours. Rissa stayed there, kneeling in the remains of the crossroads, until the sky finally cleared, revealing a deep, jubilant blue. A flock of birds soared above the hills, their cries echoing over the land.

Finally, Rissa said a prayer over the mound in the dust where her sister had stood. She slowly got to her feet and trudged through the mud and the dirt, eyes fixed on the horizon. The clouds ebbed away and still she walked, until she came upon the village.

The fields were soaked through, water pooling on the ground. Rivulets ran across the paths and off rooftops. A few children played in a puddle that formed in the square, splashing and laughing with delight.

Rissa’s steps turned towards the well, now full. She stared down into its inky depths, marveling at the hollow face that greeted her in her reflection.

Mama was dead and buried. Teren was gone. The rains had returned, and Rissa was the only one left to see them.

Let the dead weep and leave the wanting to the rest of us.

 

And oh, how she wished she could.

 

 

 

 

Linnea Koops is a senior from Shaker Heights, Ohio. She is the president of her school’s creative writing club, as well as a co-editor of her school’s literary magazine, The Seam. When not writing, Linnea enjoys playing the violin and spending time with her cats, Merry and Pippin. She loves the poetry of Mary Oliver and her favorite word is “quintessential.”